Great Expectations
by cinnaatheart
Summary: A boy falls from the sky; A man wakes with a partner he doesn't remember; Warnings from twice-times enemies; All Nick Fury knows is that the world won't ever be the same again. Rated M for swears and future bad stuff; Updates every Saturday (AEST)
1. Chapter 1: Freefall

Not gonna lie, this might not be one of my better works (way to sell myself, I know). It's mainly a side project as I work on Small Mercies. Chapters might be shorter than usual until I get into the hang of things. And forgive me (and feel free to correct me) for any incorrect events/facts/terminology in this story; all the cares are given to Small Mercies right now, so I haven't really bothered to be super accurate with the facts. Rest assured that I am at least pretty well affiliated with the marvel (movie/film) franchise.

There are no concrete pairings or slash as of right now, but I'd love to hear what people's opinions are on certain shippings.

Lot's of love!

Cinna

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**Chapter One**: Freefall

* * *

It was not a well-known fact that Nick Fury hated the heat.

Those that did know were few and far between; isolated by geography, or time, or in many cases, death. It was an interesting revelation for one to learn when presented with the image of the man, clad as he were in his well-worn leather coat and trademark skivvy. One could imagine that he wrapped himself up so, as a sign of rebellion against his (admittedly minor) weakness. He was a spy- hell he was _the_ spy. A pathological hatred for high temperatures was not about to stop him from looking like a badass.

Of course, that was not to say that he wasn't above turning the thermostat on the Helicarrier as low as possible at any given opportunity. Being _the_ super spy had its advantages; complete monopoly over the air-conditioning being one of the more important ones.

Which was why, when he woke up this morning, he was left wondering why in all seven hells was it so damn _hot_. Either he was going through menopause (which would have been interesting, given Nick was quite sure he was _not_ a woman) or someone had touched the temperature gauge. Unsurprisingly, Nick was more inclined to side with the latter possibility.

He strides down the halls of the helicarrier at a brisk pace, but not fast enough to make it look like he's running. Never let it be said that Nick Fury runs for the thermostat.

He reaches the bridge just in time for the to-the-point words of Agent Hill to blurt from his earpiece, "Sir, there's an unidentified aircraft in our flight path."

He doesn't bother replying via com, instead content to walk the five meters onwards to the sliding doors, key in his command code and bark out a suitably intimidating "Status?" as he marches through the doors. Hill, as ever, looks unfazed, though numerous other agents jump in their seats.

He'll get her someday.

"Unknown," She states when he reaches her, "But it's losing altitude quickly. It might be one of Stark's, but there's no identification signature. It just popped up out of nowhere; could be a stealth craft." He fights the urge to grimace. He can remember the last time they had to deal with one of Stark's inventions; it was a bloody nightmare. Granted, the plans _had_ been stolen and reproduced by someone else, but that didn't excuse the fact that it had been one of the self-proclaimed genius' creations.

"Bring up visuals."

A screen flickers to life in the middle of the bridge and the room draws a collective breath of surprise and horror (well, Fury does neither, but that's hardly shocking news). He hears a muted '_Good God_' from someone to his left; he can't help but agree.

It's just a smudge on the huge screen but there is very obviously a man, uncovered and unprotected, falling from the sky some several hundred meters above them. What looks like a cape flutters behind him violently, like broken wings.

"Get a pilot out there, now." He snarls, unable to tear his eyes away. He can hear Agent Hill snapping out hurried orders over the com. The man draws closer with each passing second, almost directly above the helicarrier now. He twirls uncontrolled in the wind, beautiful and horrifying in his freefall, and Fury can't help but pray to the God he doesn't believe in that the man is either dead or unconscious. Preferably dead because if not, then he is in for a world of pain when (or more terrifyingly, if) they catch him.

The agents in the Bridge look on in silence as the jet speeds out, fast as lightning but not fast enough. The body drops past before the pilot even has a chance to reach him. Determined, the jet streaks down in an effort to overtake the free-faller but it's to no avail. The body and the plane fall closer and closer to the ocean below, neither making headway of the other.

Finally, tragically, the jet is forced to swerve away.

The room watches in a collective state of shock and helplessness when the body hits the water with what they can all imagine is a sickening _smack_. Some of his agents look like they're about to cry… or vomit.

He wants to shoot something. Bite and tear and _scream_. Instead he allows himself a moment of quiet, closing his eyes to the horror before them. There was nothing that could be done. The man was dead the moment he began falling. The excuses do nothing to alleviate the rage at the failure, but they at least sooth the pain. If there is one thing Fury hates above all else (above even heat), it is failure.

"Pick up the body." He murmurs into his earpiece when he opens his eyes.

And they all sit and observe, silent and transfixed, as a helicopter comes down to retrieve the body of the freefalling man.

* * *

I, like many authors out there, am shamelessly addicted to reviews. Think of them as crack- you are my dealer and I am your crack-whore. I pay you with stories and you reward me with your thoughts. Together we make one big happy family in the crack-den that is FFN.


	2. Chapter 2: Rude Awakenings

WARNINGS:

1. There is implied sort-of-kind-of MalexMale sexy times in this chapter. If that is not your thing, then I suggest you don't read this chapter. Even if it is, I will reiterate that this only implied, and if you read on, you will see that it's kind of... not, as well.

2. This chapter is disappointingly short, as most of the chapters in Great Expectations will likely be. I like keeping things short, sharp and to the point, which means that I skip a lot of scenes that would normally be included, meaning it's up to you to fill in the gaps and silences. If you're confused by something that I haven't mentioned, feel free to PM or leave a review and I'll be happy to fill you in.

Would also like to cover timelines here. As of this chapter, the events of Thor 2 has just ended, as have Agents of SHIELD: The Well (rest assured that it's not essential to have seen this series though). I live in denial about the events of Ironman 3, so whilst I might reference some events from it, for the most part my characters will act as though it had never existed. Furthermore Tony/Pepper are not a couple. Because I don't like it.

Now that I have those things covered, we can get on with the good stuff. Enjoy!

Cinna

* * *

**Chapter Two:** Rude Awakenings (Or according to Tony Stark, Nude Awakenings)

* * *

Tony Stark liked to think of himself as a smart man.

Okay… so really he liked to think of himself as a genius; the brightest of his age, in fact. He'd built on his father's company with top of the range inventions- first with weapons, and later, after his adventure in Afghanistan, cutting edge developments in clean energy. A great number of which were _his own_ inventions.

Hell, he was the _fucking Ironman._

Given his distinguished (and admittedly obnoxious) intellect, it was therefore quite obvious that he would pride himself on his memory; infallible, he often claimed, even when blind drunk. Which, to be fair, was quite often now. And really, who could blame him? He'd seen some messed up shit in his years- _God_ he'd almost _fucking died_ in the battle of New York- not to mention that time before that with the arc-reactor. It was all enough to send anyone 'round the bend, and, well, Tony had always had an inclination to be a lush.

But I digress.

Tony Stark prided himself on his impeccable memory. He could rely upon it come rain, hail or shine. Hangover or no hangover.

Which was why he was quite surprised to find a distinctly _male_ arm lying across his chest at four a.m. on a Sunday morning.

Because he could have sworn he'd taken a woman to bed last night (_ legs that ran forever, hair black as night and green eyes as bright as his arc reactor… sounded about right_).

"_Jarvis_." He croaks, feeling distinctly not good- _Jesus how much did I drink last night?_

"Yes sir?' comes the mercifully quiet reply. Godbless _Jarvis_, ever the considerate one. The man sprawled across his bed doesn't even stir.

"What happened last night?"

An uncharacteristic pause, then; "You took a Miss Eventide to bed sir." This does not help him, not one bit. Tony retracts the blessing of his glorious creation. He thinks back to the night previously. He'd picked up Laila from one of his usual haunts… taken her home… had multiple bouts of mind-numbingly good sex and passed out at some time around 2:30.

Not that this helps, because that is very obviously a man lying in his bed, lying on his stomach, head turned away from him. There is something missing from this story.

"So why is the _she_ now a _he_?"

Another pause. This is becoming quite disconcerting.

"I don't know sir." Nope, definitely not liking where this is going, "There are some strange energy readings coming off your companion however sir."

"Strange how?"

A slight hesitation as _Jarvis_ accesses his databanks, "They are quite similar to the energy readings recorded from Loki."

"… Jarvis get the suit ready."

Slowly, carefully, Tony begins to extricate himself from the bed, trying his hardest not to wake the woman-come-man who may or may not be Loki. His sensor bracelets are blessedly still on his bedside table and a pair of boxers lie in the corner of the room. He slips them on as he moves silently (or at least, as silently as he can) to the door and freedom.

His chances of a quick and bloodless escape are dashed when the man on his bed stirs awake.

"Stark?" comes the muffled voice, and _oh God_ but he'd recognise that voice anywhere, "Fuck. What's the time?" Loki groans into the pillow, rolling over. His lower half is mercifully entangled in Tony's sheets. His movement alerts him to the light of Tony's arc reactor, which glows like a fucking beacon in the darkened room.

Tony is suddenly struck by the hilarity of this situation; they are both quite naked… well, Loki more than Tony now, but that was entirely beside the point. He suddenly feels very vulnerable. _Generally_ Tony Stark has no issue with walking around in his birthday suit. Unfortunately, generally does not include being starkers in the presence of the man who tried to take over the world… who is also naked… whom he may or may not have sex with.

"Loki." He manages to croak out, fighting the urge to burst into hysterics- he is so, _so dead_.

"Stark." The God-slash-villain sits up, resting on his elbows. The sheets pool in his terrifyingly close to his lap. Tony does his very best at _not_ looking down.

"You were a woman." Tony points out, unable to really say anything more; there are too many circuits shorting out in his brain.

Loki smirks, unashamedly. Tony has the strongest urge to hit him with a chair.

"I was."

"I had sex with you." Loki looks like he wants to start laughing. He wants to hit him even more, right in his pretty face.

"You did." A silence stretches out as Tony inwardly panics. Loki sits up properly and the sheet sinks even lower.

"For a self-proclaimed genius, I'm feeling rather unimpressed by your conversational skills." He sighs in an almost disappointed fashion, "And I had such great expectations of you."

"Why?" Tony finally manages to gasp, still stuck on Loki's previous statement. Fortunately the fallen god takes the hint. He leans back against the headboard, acting for all the world as if it were _his_ bed he was sitting naked in.

"I was curious. And bored… mostly bored."

Tony can do nothing but let out an unmanly squeak, absolutely bewildered by this turn of events.

"So you chose to have sex with me? _As a woman_?!"

Loki just shrugs, pinning him down with a look that screams _Please, I am a god, I do what I want._

It is at this point that Tony decides he has had enough of this situation. He turns as if to leave the room.

And promptly faints.

* * *

A/N: I find it unlikely that a society of beings who are blessed with extreme longevity and a naturally low population growth rate would end up being homophobic. Especially given the Asgardian's level of technological advancement. It would be ludicrous for one to assume that homosexuality is not an acceptable practice.

And I mean, come on. Loki. He is _the_ trickster God. I wouldn't be alone in saying that something like this would be vanilla ice-cream compared to some of the other shenanigans he's likely to get up to.

Seriously; Sleipnir. Need I say more?

Reviews are precious to me.


	3. Chapter 3: Misunderstandings

**Woo New Chapter! **So just letting you know, I'll be updating this fic once a week from now on. Most likely on a Saturday.

I'd also like to clarify to people something about the previous chapter; just because Tony/Loki sort-of-kind-of slept together DOES NOT, I repeat does not mean that both characters are now off the market. Loki is a trickster god, and Tony is probably so traumatized he'll run away from him the next time they meet. Furthermore, given the events that outfold in Thor 2 (which if you haven't seen it, I suggest you do now, before I bring out spoilers), it isn't likely that Loki would want to spend much of his time down on Earth. being rather... distracted.

Now, onwards.

Cinna

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**Chapter Three:** Misunderstandings

* * *

Fury glowers at the bed that refuses to be quiet. It is surrounded by various instruments that let out an assortment of _beeps _and _blips_ in a seemingly random order.

"I don't understand." Nick Fury is not one to proclaim these words often; they are for the realms of lesser men, but in some cases their utterance is a necessary evil.

Unfortunately for him, his companion seems to comprehend this phenomena even less than he does.

"I-In all my years I've never seen anything like this," stutters Doctor Lapinsas. Fury is hardly surprised by that, "By all rights he should be dead. The blunt force trauma to the head alone…" the man trails off, apparently too lost for words to carry on.

"But he's not."

The doctor looks at him as if _he_ were the idiot, "Clearly not, no. But he has numerous broken bones- many of which are shattered beyond repair. Internal bleeding, ruptured organs… if his brain continues to swell we'll be forced to take him into more surgery, perform a craniotomy-" Fury doesn't know what that is, but he can guess, "-to try and relieve some of the pressure or we risk permanent brain damage." _More brain damage, he means_. If Fury could be bothered, he would raise his eyebrow at him. Dr Lapinsas carries on oblivious, "We've already done all that we can do to save him…"

"What's his likelihood of survival?"

The man sighs, resigned, "He'll be lucky to make it til morning."

Fury takes a moment to eye the man- more of a boy really- that lies as if he were already dead. Every inch of him is wrapped in gauze or bandages or casts. So much work for a stranger that won't even last the night. He turns back to the doctor.

"Theories." This boy is an impossibility; a human never could have survived. He doesn't have to be a doctor to know that much.

'We're still waiting for his blood results. He could be Asgardian; we know their physiology is more resilient than ours, but it's still unlikely- even with their advanced healing- that they would have survived a fall like that."

"Thor did." Lapinsas gives him that look again. He's half tempted to take him down for insubordination.

"Yes, with Mjolnir. And even he didn't escape the fall from the Helicarrier unscathed."

"Then what else?"

"It's possible the boy fell with some kind of protection- a force field perhaps… something that dispersed the shock of the initial impact. It's the only way he could have escaped being liquefied." The doctor looks away, wringing his hands anxiously in his coat.

"There's something else…"

"What?"

The man sighs, eyeing the motionless body sadly, "The boy had injuries that… that weren't likely to have been acquired by his landing." Fury perks up at this. He watches him expectantly, "He had multiple burn wounds and… and…" Lapinsas looks faintly sick at the remembrance- Fury is rather disconcerted by the man's unease. He would have hoped his medical staff would have had stronger dispositions than this. They were working for SHIELD for Christ's sake. Unpleasant and disturbing were practically in the job description.

"And what?" he asks, unsympathetic, when Lapinsas doesn't carry on. He turns back to Fury, something close to remorse in his eyes.

"Numerous fingernails had been removed- with force. He also had this-" he brings out a tablet from the pocket of his coat and shows him a photograph that makes Fury want to rage and snarl. A forearm, clearly broken, the skin bruised and bloodied. Even so, Fury can make out the disturbing image of a crudely drawn skull, something long and sinuous- a vine, or a snake, perhaps- carved roughly and deeply into his flesh. There was no mistaking it for a fall injury.

"It was not recent either," Lapinsas carries on, sad eyes straying to the boy, "It was seriously infected; we've had to pump him full of antibiotics in the hope it won't turn gangrenous. He possibly had other torture wounds, but it's likely they've been masked by his newer injuries."

No emotion show's on the Director's face. Things just got a whole lot more interesting. A torture victim being disposed of over the Atlantic, hundreds of meters above anything was certainly a new one. That he turned up out of nowhere is a new too- their sensors should have at least picked up _something_, but his technicians had been over the recordings of the event countless times already. They'd found nothing but a short flare of energy. One moment, the sky above the Helicarrier had been clear of anything but the occasional cloud, the next there was a boy hurtling down right before their very eyes. The best his agents had come up with was some new and unheard of stealth technology or the use of another portal or wormhole.

Either scenario was undesirable. He needed to get to the bottom of this, and quickly.

He nods slowly at the conclusion in his mind, taking one last look at the boy-who-should-be-dead and turns around, making his way to the door.

"Where are you going?" Lapinsas sounds almost indignant at the abrupt dismissal. Fury sends him one of his looks that isn't quite a glare but isn't exactly friendly either.

"To the storeroom. I want to see what possessions he had on him when he fell. Keep me posted on his condition." He calls to the disgruntled doctor from over his shoulder.

The door glides shut behind him, leaving Lapinsas to deal with their newly acquired John Doe, the Falling Man, alone.

Outside and safe from prying eyes, Fury lets out a long and heartfelt sigh. A trickle of sweat runs down his back.

He still hadn't found out what had happened to the thermostat.

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Reviews are always loved... Just sayin'


	4. Chapter 4: Wakey-Wakey

Okay, so I know I said in the last chapter I'd publish every Saturday from now on... but I lied. Sort of. Really it's because I just realised tonight that I won't be home to publish this on Friday or Saturday, so instead of making you wait until Sunday, you're getting an early one. Chapter Five however wont be published until Saturday the 28th... hopefully. It depends on whether I have access to internet.

And a big thank-you to everyone who's left a review. I love you all!

Anyways, Enjoy!

Cinna

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**Chapter Four**: Wakey-Wakey

* * *

There are some things no man ever wants to wake up to. A house on fire. An ex-lover keen to test the sharpness of the knife on your manhood. An alarm clock.

A sworn enemy- who is quite naked- peering down at you at close quarters would very easily be in Tony's top ten.

So really, no one could fault Tony for yelping and punching said enemy under such circumstances. It's just unfortunate that he's probably done more harm to his knuckles than he did Loki' stupid cheekbones.

"What the fuck man?" Tony Stark _does not_ shriek. No he does not. And he is _so _deleting this scene from _Jarvis'_ memory banks when this is over.

"And we were getting on so well, Tony," Loki smirks, unaffected by his poor attempt at self-defence. Tony sits up, pushing the man away with a hand. He scrambles away, feels his back hit the cool plastered wall.

_Oh God _he is so, _so_ dead.

They sit there, Tony on the verge of a panic attack, Loki as calm and collected as he ever is. He watches in growing horror as the fallen God extends a hand and caresses the scarred skin around his arc reactor. His face is impassive, gaze focussed intently on the machine embedded in his chest. He looks alien in the blue light, the sharp panes of his face cast into shadow.

"I'd always wondered what this was for. It seemed pointless and gaudy at the time." His hand splays out over the machine and piercing eyes turned blue in its light lift to contemplate him, "But it's keeping you alive, isn't it?" the fingers tighten around the reactor, as if readying themselves to rip it out of him but pull away at the last moment. Tony wishes he had suit.

"What do you want?" he says hoarsely. Loki sighs and sits back. It's at this point that he realises that Loki is not in fact completely naked, though his chest is bare. He frowns at the Asgardian's trousers.

"Are those mine?" he asks, feeling slightly indignant. Loki shrugs.

"In case you didn't notice Stark, I hardly came in here prepared. Although I can put on the dress again, if you'd like."

Tony needs some brain bleach. Very much so. Because that image is unlikely to leave him for the rest of his miserable existence. He suddenly feels like crying.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he gasps, half tempted to start scratching out his eyes, "You can keep them. In fact, take a shirt too while you're at it." He gestures to the walk-in wardrobe, filled with all the clothes he'll ever need and then some.

Loki nods and stands up, elegant and fluid and _dammit _Tony wants to punch him again. He at least feels comforted by the fact that the man who was supposed to be Earth's undesirable number one was now on the other side of the room. He hears a light flick on in the other room.

"What are you doing here?" he asks when he finally manages to calm himself down, "I thought you were supposed to be on Asgard… in prison." The God turns halfway through slipping one of Tony's old band t-shirts on. A wicked smile creeps across his face.

"I was bored."

"Isn't that kind of the idea of prison?"

He shrugs again, "Probably."

"Then why me? Why not some other poor bastard?"

The God's face turns serious, "There is another reason."

Tony perks up at this, now burning with curiosity, "What?" Loki walks out and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows leaning on his knees. It's a surprisingly human gesture and for a moment Tony is caught off guard.

"I've come with a warning."

"A warning?" he parrots. His guest nods slowly.

"Something has come to Midgard. I know not where it came from, but it reeks of death."

"You don't know… are you saying it's come from another world, like you?"

"I believe so. But it does not come from a world under Heimdall's watch." Tony frowns at that.

"What do you mean, it's not under Heimdall's watch?" Loki shrugs.

"Make of it what you will. Be wary, Stark. No good will come from this."

"So what do you want us to do? Destroy it?" Loki's lips thin.

"I don't know if you can. But find it, learn its purpose. Under no circumstances should you trust it. Death saturates it; mark my words- it is dangerous and cannot be controlled."

If Tony didn't know better, he'd say that Loki was feeling concerned for Earth. It feels weird beyond all meaning of the word to receive a warning like this from the Asgardian who tried to subjugate the planet to his reign. He is understandably suspicious- the trickster god of lies has not only broken himself out of prison and found his way back to Earth, he's also pretended to be a woman and slept with him, which- _fuck_ he shouldn't have thought of that, now he's creeped out all over again.

Yep, he's definitely taking Loki's warning with a grain of salt. For all Tony knows, he's planted a red herring for Tony to find whilst the bastard runs off to oppress Australia with flying kangaroos and dropbears. Or he's using reverse psychology in the hopes that someone will actually use the thing and blow a hole in space and time… or something.

"So how am I supposed to find it?" he asks carefully. Loki rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"You're a genius Stark- or at least a human one- use your brain." Tony scowls at the back-handed compliment, "Don't let it fall into the wrong hands. There are beings in this universe that no power on Earth could ever hope to conquer. Should they learn about this..." Loki scrutinises his fingers for a moment before looking back up, "Well, I don't think I need to inform you of the consequences. I'm sure you can work it out for yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The Asgardian nods regally and stands up. Tony's trousers are several inches too short for the tall man, but he manages to pull it off, "You make sure that you do." He says loftily and Tony has the strongest urge to poke his tongue out at him. He manages to quell the urge, but only just.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the grin is back, "Later Stark."

And now Tony is alone in his room, wondering what it was exactly that just happened.

* * *

Please review :)

And MERRY CHRISTMAS


	5. Chapter 5: Recovery

Ciao! Happy New Year. Hope 2014 is better than 2013 :)

Cinna

* * *

**Chapter Five: **Recovery

* * *

Fury is unimpressed by the objects his agents had recovered from the Falling Man.

They lie spread out in front of him, looking impressively unassuming on the stainless-steel bench. Agent Kevendar (known for her slight lean towards the obsessive compulsive) has lined them out carefully for the Director, each one evenly spaced from the other. The clothes he had been wearing- or at least, what had been salvaged of them- sit folded on another bench. The thing that many had confused with a cape is in fact a cloak (and really, Fury doesn't think there's any difference between the two, though Kevendar insists there is). It's thick, woollen and black as ink, littered with what may or may not be burn marks and rips and tears.

"This was all they found?" Agent Hill asks beside him, sounding just as uninspired. He'd met her on the way here. Kevendar nods. Her hand strays to a long, thin piece of wood as if half tempted to caress it. It's stained a dark, almost ruby red and the bottom third of the tapered stick is wrapped in thin strips of well-worn leather, obviously meant to be held.

"We scanned everything. There were some residual energy readings from the stick, but not enough to be concerned about. Nothing else showed anything."

"What was in this?" Fury asks, pointing to an ugly looking pouch tied to a leather cord long enough to slip over the head.

The agent suddenly looks uncomfortable.

"We don't know." She accedes.

"Don't know? How could you not know? Did you open it?"

"We tried to. It wouldn't open, at all. We tried scanning it but it showed nothing. Clairvos-" she sends a dark look over her shoulder to her partner, "-had the bright idea of trying to cut it open but that didn't work either."

Fury eyes the pouch with renewed interest, "Are you saying that this was impenetrable?" the agents nod reluctantly.

"How is that possible?" asks a sceptical Agent Hill. Kevendar purses her lips unhappily.

"We don't know. On all accounts it's just looks a regular pouch; the fabric feels similar to moleskin, and you can tell that there's something inside. The scans show much the same- for all intents and purposes that is just some regular moleskin fabric that weighs about what you'd expect it to with a small object in it. But we can't open it, or cut it or see what's inside."

Fury hates mysteries, hates them with an unbridled passion. Today just isn't his lucky day. First the thermostat, then the Falling Man, his apparently mystical survival and finally the objects in his possession. Nothing today is making terribly much sense and Fury is half tempted to just shoot the man, send his belongings to the Sandbox and be done with it.

He somehow thinks his superiors would disagree.

He sighs in resignation and looks back at the spread. Most of it really isn't anything special- a knife, no bigger than his hand, an old-looking gold ring they'd managed to pry off a broken finger before the swelling would have made it impossible and a silver necklace with a small triangle-shaped pendant being the most noteworthy of his possessions. Not that there was much else to compare it to, but he supposed possible torture victims weren't exactly in a position to keep personal items.

"Was there anything to identify him with?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"No." confirms Kevendar, "Nothing at all. The ring's likely to be a signet ring, but there was no match for its coat of arms with any of our databases."

"Very well. Any more progress on his appearance?" The agents share a discomforting glance and Fury gets the impression that he is _not_ going to like what is about to come next.

"We found some residual energy readings that were reminiscent of tesseract portal activation." Agent Clairvos' voice is soft and gravelly, courtesy of a research mission in Russia gone wrong.

_Well fuck. Today just gets better and better._

"I was under the impression that the Asgardian's were in possession of the Tesseract."

"I think they still might be… there were also some readings similar to Jane Foster's data on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge." Fury draws the conclusion quickly enough.

"You think the Asgardian's sent him here on a tesseract-powered Bifrost?"

Clairvos gives him something that seems halfway between a nervous tic and a nod, "It's possible, but we don't know enough about either to draw any conclusions."

Fury sighs heavily. It's looking more and more likely that the Falling Man is possibly Asgardian. He just thanks the Gods above that Thor was currently on Earth after that mess with the Dark Elves. Hopefully the Asgardian prince can shed some more light on this situation than his Agents can.

"Keep working on that pouch. And try and get something more concrete from his appearance." He orders the two agents. They nod in unison. Fury turns about face and strides out of the room, Agent Hill following behind him.

"Orders sir?" she asks, almost reading his mind. It's gotten to the point where he's not even weirded out by it anymore.

"Get Thor and Stark up here... and Banner and Foster… in fact just be done with it and summon the whole team." Hill looks unsurprised.

"What about John Doe, sir?"

"Set two guards on his room and make sure someone's always watching his footage. I don't want him going anywhere."

"Yes sir." Hill stops and raises her hand to address her earpiece. Fury continues on, intent now on seeing to his most pressing matter; the mystery of the broken air-conditioning. A thought occurs to him and he turns back around.

"Hill." He calls down the hall. She turns, face expectant, "Get him scanned too. I want to know what he is and why he's here." _And, more to the point, why the fuck he's still alive_.

He fervently hopes that nothing else will turn up to ruin what remains of the rest of his day.

* * *

_Pain. Agony. Torment._

_Above all, pure, unadulterated pain._

_It eats through his insides, carves out his brain, shatters his limbs and sets the world on fire. It seizes at his vocal chords and he screams and screams and screams. Something gives and tears at his throat, but he carries on because there is nothing else but this, there will never be anything but this and he screams and sobs and curses because there is nothing else he can do, nothing else that he can _think_ to do._

_He is pain and pain is him and this agony will never end as long as he exists._

_A curse. Frantic words and cluttering sounds and then then something is pulling him down. He doesn't want to go because it's dark down there in the abyss, but to stay is to exist in torment and he finds little choice._

_He chases frantically after the escape and lets the darkness envelop him even as the screams still echo in his throat and stumble through his bones._

* * *

So there you go- your first taste of the Falling Man. Watcha think? Do I really need to act all coy about who this is? No? I didn't think so :P

Also, I made mention of the Sandbox- for those that haven't seen Agents of Shield, it's easy enough to check it out ( thanks to the glory of the internet). basically, it's SHIELD's version of the incinerator.


	6. Chapter 6: Itches

Look! They're getting longer (yayy)! Granted not by much, but oh wells; it feels wrong to add more content to make them longer just for the sake of being longer.

OH AND LOOK WHO IT IS! You guys have been asking about him since I started this series, so here you go. I feel like you've earnt it.

Happy New Year everybody. Hope 2014 is better than the last. And sorry if this is a bit messy or unedited. I've updated this under... expensive conditions (80cents a minute expensive) so needed to get it out asap. if there are any mistakes, rest assured they will be duly noted and fixed within the next fortnight.

* * *

**Chapter Six**: **:** Itches

* * *

When Harry wakes up for the second time, the pain is still there. It burns through his veins and claws at his throat and eyes with fiery talons. But there is a noticeable difference; the pain is muted, as though hiding from him behind locked doors. He knows the agony is there, but it's not as overwhelming as before. He can ignore it… or at least, think of other things.

Other things like the growing discomfort along the bridge of his nose, which feels like the only thing _not_ broken. Or the disconsonant beeping that seems to echo through the room. The room that is filled to the brim with what can only be muggle technology. Or the padded restraints that tie his arms and chest down to the bed (he feels like he should be more concerned about that than he really is, but he can't really bring himself to care). Or the itchy skin on his nose…

… The itchy skin on his nose…

_Oh God_ his nose is _itchy_.

Harry Potter cannot move and _buggering bitch-tits_ but his nose is itchy as _hell_.

He casts his eyes around the room, turning his head as much as he dares in the neck-brace. The room is empty.

Harry feels like crying. This is literally his own personal hell.

"Hello?" he tries to call out. His voice breaks half-way through. He rolls his eyes, clears his throat and tries again.

* * *

Steve Rogers hates being on the Helicarrier.

It's all stainless-steel floors and white walls that feel alive thanks to the constant him of machinery and electronics that run through _everything_. It reminds him too much of all the things he'd gone and lost in his seventy year sleep. Technology that he should have seen the development of. People who he should have been able to watch develop it all.

Of course, the absence of should-have-been memories is not his only problem with the Helicarrier. There is also the dilemma that everything here looks _exactly the same_. He'd swear that not a visit went by when he _didn't _find himself lost. Sometimes he manages to retrace his steps and find out where he'd gone wrong. Most times he ends up having to ask someone where he is and how he could get where he needed to be, whilst simultaneously trying not to flush with embarrassment (he was Captain America after all, and Captain America _does not_ flush).

Unfortunately today was one of such days.

He doesn't know where he is; there are never any _signs_ and the corridor in which he finally admits to himself he is lost in is filled with doors, but he'd bet his shield that none of them are the door he actually wants. He's rather hoping they're offices, but none of them sport windows so it's hard to tell (and does the Helicarrier even have offices? It feels weird that it possibly could).

Feeling quite foolish, he knocks on the first door he comes across. There is no reply, though he does wait half a minute before he tries opening it. It's locked; naturally.

Ever the tenacious one (and the slightly desperate- he was supposed to be at the meeting 10 minutes ago) he moves onto the next one.

And the next.

And the next.

He's about to give up- it's more than likely (and just his luck) that this is just an empty corridor- when he hears something. He walks quietly down the corridor, curious.

_There it is again_- muffled, soft, but it definitely sounds like someone talking. When it comes again, he's close enough to hear them.

"Hello?" comes a voice. Male; young. He sounds almost desperate, perhaps distraught. Steve speeds up, concerned now.

"Hello?" he answers, making sure he's loud enough for the man to hear him.

A pause, then, "Oh _Thank Merlin_! I thought I was alone in here!" The voice is coming from the last door in the corridor. A laminated piece of paper has been blue-tacked to the door:

_John Doe 33678_

He tries the handle, half expecting it to be locked. It isn't. He lets the door slide open… and stares dumbfounded for a moment at the image he's presented with.

The room is _filled_ with machines- which would have been a nightmare to him on a _good_ day. From wall to wall- there are machines everywhere, with what looks like just enough space cleared away to walk around the bed sitting in the middle of it all.

The bed that holds what is probably the most injured person he's ever met.

There are bandages _everywhere_; bandages and wires and tubes. The poor guy looks like half a machine himself for all the things he's been hooked up to.

"Thank Merlin you're here." The very injured man gasps with relief. Steve wonders how he's even managing to talk.

"Hello." He says, awkwardly. The man tries to get a look at him from his supine position and fails.

"Yeah, hi." He sounds British, Steve decides, and impatient, "I need your help."

"What can I do for you?" ever the eager helper is Steve. He's kind of hoping this John Doe hasn't mistaken him for a doctor though, because that's definitely _not_ something he can help him with.

"I need you to scratch my nose."

Steve stares at the man, perplexed.

"That's it? Scratch your nose? Why can't you just do it yourself?"

He huffs in frustration, "Because I can't fucking _move_." He snarls, giving a soft tug at his arms and ultimately bringing attention to his restraints.

Steve suddenly wonders if he has the clearance to be in here.

"Come on man!" John Doe pleads at Steve's sudden hesitation, "Just scratch my fucking nose already! I've been waiting half an hour for someone to come along and help." Steve moves closer to the bed and the stranger locks eyes on him. His eyes are a startling- albeit bloodshot- green, and they are filled with a desperate pleading. It doesn't take long for Steve to relent.

He reaches out, despite his shortcomings, and tentatively scratches at John Doe's uncovered nose. The man practically melts, every line of tension slipping away under the pressure of Steve's blunt nails.

"Oh God that feels good." The man practically purrs. Steve laughs. After a time the stranger sighs, content, "You can stop now. Thanks. That itch was driving me mad."

"I can imagine." They fall into an awkward silence, the Green-eyed man sizing Steve up, almost calculatingly, as the super-soldier takes in his injuries.

"I'm Harry."

"Steve."

"You don't look like a doctor, Steve." He smiles at Harry.

"I'm not… I'm a soldier."

"Oh." He looks sad at that statement for a moment, before the calculating look comes back into his eyes, "What's a soldier like you doing in here then?" he asks, almost shrewdly. Steve laughs in embarrassment; he can feel a flush coming on.

"I got lost. Again. You wouldn't happen to know how to get to the Bridge, would you?" Harry looks like he's trying to raise an eyebrow, but they've both got stiches in them and he gives up quickly.

"Mate, I don't even know where _I _am."

"Ah."

"So… where _am _I?"

"I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you that. But you're with SHIELD."

"Shield?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"… Someone just wanted that to spell out shield, didn't they."

"Probably, yeah." Another silence. Steve contemplates the machines around them. Some of them he could probably guess the use of. Some are familiar from his own time. Others seem to have no purpose to him, other than being _there_. Harry yawns, his eyes drooping, "So how did _you_ get here?" It's probably rude to ask a question to someone about to fall asleep (especially an injured person) but he wants to get the information.

"Buggered if I know," yawns Harry. Steve thins his lips.

"You're impressively calm for having no clue where and why you're here."

"…mm… Where I come from you just kind of let things lie where they fall… They'll probably come find me soon…"

Steve frowns at the man as he slips off. British Special Forces perhaps. Although it didn't explain why they hadn't identified him, nor why he was so young; he wouldn't place him past twenty. Granted, it was hard to tell with all of his injuries, but he certainly came off as young.

He's moving to look at the med chart sitting at the end of the bed when his phone rings. He fumbles for a moment, but manages to answer it before it rings out.

"Hello?" he exits the room, not willing to re-awaken Harry. He looked like he needed all the sleep he could get.

"_Captain __Rogers, where are you? The briefing was supposed to start twenty minutes ago._" Agent Hill says, only the slightest hint of agitation in her voice. He looks down at his watch and winces.

"I got lost..."

A sigh, "_I'll send someone down to collect you. Where are you?"_

"Ummm."

Another sigh, "_Right. Well, stay where you are. Agent Davisson will pick you up shortly._"

"Roger that." The phone goes dead. Steve lets out a heartfelt sigh; he feels like an idiot. Captain America, the man out of time, with a habit of always getting lost. He should be grateful at least; he never had a problem when he was on a mission.

He pauses, just outside the door and looks back at the laminated sign. It seemed silly to call him that when they now knew his name- or at least, half of it. He fishes a pen from his trouser pocket and scratches in the name _Harry_ into the hard plastic.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he smiles and walks down to the other end of the corridor to wait for Agent Davisson to find him.

* * *

I love this chapter. Love it very much, so I hope you guys do too :) Once again, If you're unsure on something, don't hesitate to leave me a message or a review and I'll get back to you.

Or hey, leave me a review anyway :P

Reviews are like drugs.

Only less expensive.

See you next week guys!


	7. Chapter 7: Interesting Conclusions

So the good news is, the chapters _are_ getting longer, just like I said they would, and it's the trend pretty much from here on in. So lucky you.  
Also, thank-you to everyone who left a review! You guys made my week and I will say that whilst normally I reply to a lot of reviews, this week has been hard because of the whole internet issue. Which is why you're getting a reply here.

To those who noticed the lack of security in the last chapter- don't worry! I hadn't just forgotten about that! … and I am actually thinking of doing a one-shot about Harry's rubbish security and their general not-there-ness, but it's only the early development stages at the moment.

Velveteenrabbit also asked for clarification on the timeline. Marvel movieverse wise, I am pretending Iron Man 3 is not part of the canon, which is why Tony still has his arc reactor. I am also wilfully ignoring the romantic relationship between Tony and Pepper… because I don't like Pepper- mostly thanks to Iron Man 2.

Great Expectations is taking place about a month and a half after Thor 2 and Agents of Shield: The Well (can't remember off the top of my head what episode that is). Thor has returned to Earth. As for the Harry Potter universe… well I don't want to give anything away, but I will say that it runs pretty much on par with the Marvel-verse.

To Nicci-Sama who gave me a beautifully in-depth explanation of room-numbering in the Navy- thank-you! It's really great to get that kind of input, and I love making things as accurate as possible. That said, as a writer, in many senses I also work like a screen-writer; I am a selective informant and will shamelessly twist facts to fit my means (however, I normally tell people when I do so). Steve getting lost was essential for the last chapter, so yes, whilst it may be unlikely he'd really manage to get lost on the Helicarrier because of the numbering system they're likely to use, I'm more than happy to pretend that all of that is irrelevant for Steve. But I'll be sure to keep in mind the system for later, don't you worry!

…. Now, I think that's it. Thanks again for reviews/favorites/follows! Read on and have a good week!

Cinna

AND OHMYGOD I KNEW I'D FORGET SOMETHING (Sorry sorry SORRY DX )  
SPOILER FOR THOR 2. LIKE, UBER SPOILER.

* * *

**Chapter Seven:** Interesting Conclusions

* * *

The Helicarrier is as laughably easy to hack into as always.

It takes Tony all of 8 minutes, from arrival to receiving SHIELD's secrets, spread out on his tablet like some sort of super-spy buffet and he can't help but think that after his first security breach SHIELD would have learnt their lesson and hired a more capable department. Apparently not. Really, he would have like to have seen more than a 43 second improvement after his last break-in. For the good of the world of course.

Fury could go on and on and _on_ all he liked about how it was a breach of protocol and security, yada-yada-yada, but Tony liked to think that he was really doing the closet pirate a good deed. To him, it was a demonstration of exactly how phenomenally, _ridiculously_ incompetent his IT department really were. And, well… Fury hadn't exactly given them homework when he called them in, so what else was Tony going to do? Walk in blind and ignorant? He thought not.

And really, expecting Tony to not search for more information when summoned to the Helicarrier (especially after his tryst with Loki less than four hours ago… which he hadn't said anything about… was likely to take it to his grave in fact) was like expecting an alcoholic to say no to free alcohol.

Needless to say, Fury was less than surprised when the first words out of Tony's mouth when he and Bruce entered the conference room were: "Is this about John Doe 33678?"

Fury just sighs and motions for the pair to sit down. Tony's not sure if he should feel disappointed or victorious.

"How long?" Agent Hill asks politely, pulling out her command tablet.

"Eight minutes twenty-three seconds." He says smugly. Her lips purse.

Bruce sits down; Tony follows. Wordlessly he hands the doctor his tablet, the file on the Falling Man still open. They'd fallen into a silent agreement months ago; Bruce wouldn't complain about the questionable morality of Tony's methods, so long as he made sure to share the results with him. It worked well.

"Well?" Tony demands as Bruce scans through the document. A look of horror grows on his face. Fury sits down.

"I'd rather not have to repeat myself." He rumbles, which is as good as confirmation in Tony's books.

A minute later Natasha saunters in (and really, that's the only way to describe the roll of her hips), Clint only fifteen seconds behind, though he enters via a much less conventional way; the airvent. Tony thinks it says a lot about the group that no one so much as bats an eye at his entrance, though Fury does glare at the covering that will now have to be replaced. The archer must cost him a fortune in repairs.

Thor arrives not long after, though it would be more accurate to say his voice does. They can hear his voice rumbling through the walls well before he even walks through the door. A pretty woman in plain clothes tows along behind him, looking slightly unsure of herself.

"Friends!" he cries happily, "It has been a while! Are you well?"

Natasha sends the pair a nod, Clint waves, Bruce smiles and Tony jumps back up to grasp the Asgardian's forearm, "Thor, buddy! It's great to see you! How've you been?" Tony is _not_ nervous, no he is not, even if he did sort-of unintentionally have sex with the god's little brother and _oh Jesus he could crush me with his pinkie_-

- No. Not nervous at all.

In a bid to alleviate his sudden onset of terror, Tony turns to Thor's companion, "Doctor Foster. Your work on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge has been enlightening." She smiles graciously as Tony shakes her hand.

"Thank-you Mister Stark. I look forward to seeing a refinement of your arc reactor technologies." Tony sends her a rakish smile.

"So do I."

They sit down Thor and Doctor Foster on the opposite side of the conference table to Tony and Bruce. An empty seat lies between the Asgardian and Fury. Someone is missing and Tony has a fairly clear idea of who it is.

"Say Nick," he drawls, sitting back in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair, "Seems like we've got someone missing. Where's the Capsicle?" Fury glares at him for the unsolicited use of his first name. Tony takes it as a victory. Agent Hill calls someone to pick up their wayward soldier.

The Captain arrives some nine minutes later, blushing furiously (or at least, as much as a super-soldier _can_ blush furiously) but looking determined to not bring attention to his tardiness.

"Get lost again?" Tony asks lightly when he sits down; Steve scowls at him. Tony is tempted to do something juvenile like poke his tongue out.

"Everything looks the same." He defends quietly. Bruce offers him a sympathetic smile.

Fury clears his throat and the room's attention shifts to the Director.

"At 0726 hours yesterday the Helicarrier encountered what we first thought to be a stealth craft; possibly stolen Stark tech" Tony scowls at the implications that would have had, "It turned out to be this-" a picture appears on the screen behind him and the room draws a collective breath of shock. It is clearly a snapshot of a man, falling from the sky. He looks unconscious.

Even Tony and Bruce, who have already seen the footage, feel uneasy at the image.

"We were at an altitude of 28 000 feet when he appeared. Attempts to save the man failed."

"Where did he come from?" breathes Doctor Foster. Fury's eye darkens.

"We don't know." And oh but Tony would bet his left leg that Fury _hated_ having to say those words, "Analysis of our sensors found trace energy readings a fraction of a second before he appeared on our radars." Graphs replace the Falling Man that fill Tony simultaneously with excitement and dread, "The tech's thought it may have been some combination of Asgardian interstellar transport and Tesseract powered wormholes. They found readings similar to both."

Tony suddenly feels ill.

"That was as much as my agents could get from it. Doctor Foster I'd like you to analyse the readings, see if you can glean anything else- Doctor Banner will assist you when needed. I want to know exactly what it was that brought him here, and if it happens again I need the ability to pinpoint its location- we cannot be caught unawares again." They nod, apparently happy to be ordered around.

Out of nowhere, Clint barks a laugh; it sounds mildly hysterical. Natasha's eyes narrow.

"Something funny Agent Barton?" Fury asks; deadly quiet. Birdbrain looks like he's struggling to hold a straight face and Fury looks about ready to hit him.

"I-" he laughs again, a faint snicker, 'Sorry- shit, haha- it's just-" he gives in trying to be serious and hides his face behind his hands.

"_It's_ _raining men!_" he suddenly blurts out, laughing all the way, "_Hallelujah it's raining men!_" he dissolves into a fit of giggles and bangs his head onto the table. Tony smirks at the archer's display. Fury looks like he's about to have a coronary and Natasha appears sorely tempted to end her partner. The Capsicle and Thor are confused to bits, bless them. Bruce, Agent Hill and Dr Foster hide their grins behind their hands.

"That, Agent Barton, is a very astute observation," Fury finally grinds out. Clint's next giggle is borderline terrified, but he's slowly getting his face back under control, "But I fail to see its relevance to the case at hand." _Of course you don't._

Clint calms down, sending Fury an apologetic look. Natasha firmly ignores him.

"Ahh, right," Bruce looks awkward after Clint's little outburst. He turns to face Doctor Foster, "Is it possible the guy's a throwback from the convergence?" Tony's not surprised that Bruce knows about it- he had after all been the one to hack into SHIELD and share with him the information about the disaster in Greenwich.

Thor shakes his head, but Doctor Foster looks thoughtful at the suggestion, "It's possible," she says slowly, "We'd noticed anomalies quite some time before the convergence, so I don't see why it _wouldn't_ occur _after_ the event. But it's been over a month. We haven't seen any evidence of portal activity further than about three weeks. It could be that our sensors just weren't strong enough to pick them up though."

Bruce smiles, "We'll look into it." She smiles and nods back.

Fury clears his throat and looks down at the control tablet in front of him. If Tony thought the Director had feelings, he'd say the look on his face was uneasy.

"There's another thing. We went to retrieve the body, expecting the man to have died on impact. He was not." Footage of men retrieving the body and the flurry of activity that follows show's up.

"That's impossible." Natasha states bluntly- the first words she's said all morning- as they watch in horror as a gurney rolls away from the helicopter. From between the swarms of people, they can see an arm hanging limply from the side, blood dripping steadily onto the tarmac. It may just be a trick of the light or a bump of the stretcher, but it almost looks like the man's fingers are twitching.

"It should have been, but Subject 33678 seems to be sturdier than he looks." He sends Thor a pointed look, "Despite injuries which should have been deadly, he refuses to die. I've had numerous doctors predicting that he would never wake up, if he even managed to last the night.

"He managed to do both, though he's only woken once, and was insens-"

"Twice." Steve interjects solemnly, eyes glued to the screen. Fury's eye fixes on the super-soldier like a lopsided hawk on a fat pigeon.

"Care to explain Captain?" he asks, deadly quiet. Steve swallows nervously.

"I got lost… managed to somehow end up outside his room. He was calling out for help."

"And how exactly did you get past his security?"

He looks confused, "Security? The corridor was empty; poor guy said he'd been calling out for ages."

Tony almost, _almost_ hopes the news about more incompetent agents will send Fury into a berserker rage, were it not for the (legitimate) fear that he might be the first one the Director shoots. He turns to Hill, "Who's on guard?" he snarls in a remarkable display of restraint, though Tony's quite sure he saw Fury's hand twitch down towards his gun for a terrifying moment.

A pause as she checks her tablet, "Cage and Moore, sir."

"Discipline them."

"Yes sir."

Fury focuses back on Steve, who suddenly looks like he wishes he'd never said anything, "He ah… he said his name was Harry- didn't give me a last name. For all his injuries he seemed pretty cheery- didn't seem to mind that he didn't know where he was. He's British; or at least he had a British accent. Said something about his people coming to pick him up soon. I'd thought he might have been part of the British Special Forces or something." Fury and Agent Hill share a loaded look.

"We've had no contact from any agencies. We'll send a query out- see if it brings up anything." Hill makes a note on her screen. The room falls silent, every member apparently chewing on the information. The disturbing footage of Harry on a gurney plays on repeat behind the Director.

"Is it possible he's Asgardian?" Bruce asks intelligently.

"Blood test came back negative." Comes Fury's flat reply, "33789 is most certainly human."

"Mutant then? Could he be like…ahh" Tony clicks his fingers as he tries to remember the guy's name, "Logan? Xavier's man?" Fury shakes his head.

"The doctor's found no presence of the X-gene, nor any other anomalies known to provide humans with super-human traits."

"Technology then?" Tony asks, "Did he have something on him that could have slowed his fall and dispersed the damage?"

Agent Hills retrieves a shoe-sized box from under the table and he eyes it with interest.

"The belongings found on 33678," she offers, pushing the crate over to him. The dry rasp it makes across the glass gives him the impression that there's not terribly much in there, "We found nothing that that was likely to have been used for such a purpose."

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "He _fell into the ocean_. Kind of doubt he'd have managed to keep hold of the thing. Chances are whatever it was- if it was an _it_- absorbed most of his energy and was destroyed on impact. It would have just been lost to the great big blue." Hill sends him a look that says _like I didn't fucking think of that; I know where you sleep Stark so shut the hell up_.

He smiles at her sweetly and opens the box.

And laughs at what he finds inside. He almost feels insulted.

"What is this? Lost and found? What do you want me to do- track the owners or something? I'm sure someone's missing their stick very much." A vein pulses violently in Fury's neck.

"These, Stark," he says with an impressive level of serenity (and honestly it's just too easy and _fun_ to stop pushing at Fury's buttons), "are the objects found on 33678's person. My agents have been unable to open the small pouch he had been carrying and had not found an explanation for its apparent indestructability. I was hoping you would be more successful in shedding some light on the matter."

Tony looks at the contents with renewed interest. An indestructible and inaccessible pouch sounded kind of cool. Presumably, it only opened for its owner (keyed to their genetics maybe?), which would be pretty damn convenient. He closes the crate and slides it to the side of him.

"I'll see what I can do." The Director nods in grudging appreciation; he stands.

"One other thing." Fury says before their inevitable dismissal, "The boy showed signs of torture," Tony shifts uncomfortably, memories of Afghanistan creeping back to him, "No one's come forward if he is an agent, but I don't want to rule out the possibility. If someone is after him, they must be stopped- if he's got information valuable to the peace of the planet, I want to know it. His room is to be under constant guard; Rogers, Romanoff, Barton and Thor, you are now effectively on babysitter duty-" Clint scowls furiously, the others seem unaffected, "- _no one_ is to enter his room unless they are from medical, and under no circumstances are you to allow them to do anything to him if they appear in any way suspect.

"And," the menace in his voice cranks up 3000 percent, "If I find out that any of you have left him unattended, then so help me but you will wish you'd never been born." The babysitters look suitably intimidated (well, except for Natasha, but Tony would swear her face is just a concrete mask most of the time) "He is to be kept alive, if for no other reason than to explain why he is alive in the first place.

"Any further questions don't hesitate to ask Agent Hill." He strides out of the room, tails of his coat fluttering behind him. Hill hands Steve a file- presumably about 33678- or Harry.

"I'll go on first watch," he offers (_surprise surprise_), "five hour shifts sound alright?" Clint shrugs, Thor and Natasha nod their acquiescence.

"We in the same place as last time?" Tony asks, pushing his chair away from the table.

"Yes, I'm sure you know where the labs are, Stark." Her tone is only _just_ this side of snarky. He tucks the box of goodies under his arm, ready to leave, before thinking better of it.

He sidles over to Thor, who's also left the table, ready to follow Doctor Foster like an overly loud puppy. He smiles at Tony's approach.

"Hey Thor, what's the news on Loki?"

The Asgardian's face falls, "My brother was slain in the battle on Svartalfheim. He fought valiantly and bravely to save the universe." _I'm sure he did. _Tony hasn't heard anything of Svartalfheim, but he knows enough about Thor's shenanigans in Greenwich. He didn't know about his apparent death however. He wonders how the bastard managed to fool his brother into thinking him dead.

He fakes a sad face, "I'm sorry to hear that pal… say, what did you do with the body?"

"He was given a full funeral procession and was sent over the falls in a blaze of glory. Why do you ask, Man of Iron?" Tony wonders who's body it really was they sent over the falls. And, why he had yet to say anything about his late night visitations by a dead man, because really it's not something you don't tell anyone about- he'd _tried to take over the world_ for Christ's sake.

"Oh, no reason. Sorry, again, big guy." He pats Thor comfortingly on the shoulder and hurries down the corridor before the man can ask him any more questions.

Or he can ask himself his own.

* * *

Soo there's Chapter Seven for you. I feel like I haven't quite touched upon the scenes of last night with Tony enough in this chapter, but I don't really see anywhere that I can put it in without some serious restructuring, which I am most certainly _not_ doing. So blergh.

I'll see you lot next week. Don't forget to leave me a review; tell me what you _feel_. ;)


	8. Chapter 8: Hit and Miss

Oh man, totally forgot to update today. I blame traveling- also bought a new laptop because I've been tempted to throw my old one off a balcony for about a year and a half.  
Not too keen on this chapter, it's a bit of an easy filler. If you see any mistakes or things you would like to enlighten me with, by all means comment away. I was once a science buff, but that was three years ago now, and the vast store of knowledge had characterised me as a high school student has been replaces. Also, the chapters are getting longer, I swear. Just not this chapter.  
Thanks for all the reviews and love. I will get around to replying. at some point. :P

AND OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY TO THOSE WHO READ CHAPTER SEVEN BEFORE I PUT UP THE SPOILER WARNINGS. I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT THEM AND AHHHH I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THAT SORRY SORRY SORRY!  
Later Tater.

Cinna

**Chapter Eight:** Hit and Miss

* * *

They've been working on the readings for days.

Day one had brought little ground, Doctor Banner and Doctor Foster (and the small team of scientists Director Fury had provided them with) more concerned with setting up the right equipment- and where necessary, creating it- and the custom fitting of computer programs. Stark had been more than a great help, happy to pitch in his two cents (or more, even when unnecessary, as is Stark's wont) in their brainstorming and build the equipment and computer algorithms needed for their work.

Day two went better, Jane and Bruce now able to actually _work_ and analyse and theorise. Tony wasn't around to help by then; too absorbed in his own Fury-assigned job, but every few hours- when it occurred to him that he should eat- he came to see how it was all going. By eleven o'clock that night (when they finally decided they could work no further fuelled only by coffee and sugar) they had managed to isolate the components of the transmission that marked Harry's appearance (as they team preferred to call him; 33678 sounded too impersonal, and the Falling Man made him sound like a legend) _and_ smooth out the connections between the elements that the SHIELD agents had begun exploring.

Though it had been difficult; the Helicarrier's sensors were only designed to monitor certain radiations, and it was hard for the pair to tell if the data in front of them was really all that was there, or if the sensors had missed some crucial piece to the puzzle. In the end, Jane theorised that the burst of energy was definitely a combination between a tesseract-activated wormhole and the Asgardian Bifrost, but not quite. For one, it lacked the sheer amount of energy that characterised both forms of transport (almost like an echo, slightly empty and distorted, an imperfect simulacra). Secondly, there was some undefinable element in the data that still had them stumped (which they suspected was incomplete and therefore infinitely harder to identify), but had the possibility- they were quite sure- to turn the combination into something entirely and incomprehensibly different.

Jane had joked offhandedly that Harry was probably not just a visitor from another galaxy, but from another universe entirely, like a superman comic she'd once read. Bruce thought it unlikely- the boy had no technological possessions on his person, and it should have been impossible for him to make the jump alive without more protection than his woollen cape thing, which had certainly seen better days.

She'd left a post-it note with the words _alternate universe_ on a computer screen anyway. Bruce had frowned, but chose not to say anything about it.

Day three was spent partly arguing over what exactly this extra element was (Tony came in at some point and after an overview of their notes and the data, joined into the heated debate) and partly (after they decided to give up on the golden egg for the time being and focus on the second part of Fury's orders) working furiously on tracking any future transmissions. It was more difficult this time than it had been to track the tesseract. The tesseract was a permanent energy source; it constantly bled radiation, just like the sun (not to mention the _amount_ of radiation it emitted), making it easy to track via satellite. A burst of energy that lasted no longer than a second was considerably harder. It required constant monitoring of the feeds; an almost blanket surveillance of all operable satellites in the sky that had the right equipment (which surprisingly wasn't that many). Some of which should technically not have existed and had to be hacked (they had Tony to thank for that service). By the time they'd finished, it was 12 o'clock. Now it was just a waiting game.

Day four had them back at arguing and analysing the extra element- that golden egg- that had accompanied Harry's sudden materialisation. To no avail.

Day five Steve told them that Harry had still not re-awoken, though he was healing at an incredible rate, leaving the doctors stunned and uneasy. In his down time, Bruce double checked the boy's blood sample and found no differing results. He was neither Asgardian nor mutant. He passes on his findings to the Director feeling somewhat useless and silly. Bruce and Jane bickered some more.

Day six Tony threw his hands up in disgust at his lack of progress on the mole-skin bag and complained at the (by now) harried and equally frustrated scientists. It seemed to emit readings similar to that of Loki's magic, almost, but not quite (and wasn't _that_ a familiar story). He'd tried cancelling out the radiation, but had consistently failed, more often than not scrambling his electronic equipment. Tony suspected the energy was actually fighting his counteracting measures with some of its own, but in the end pinned it down to just a natural fluctuation fuelled by his paranoia. No scans he tried would show him anything that was inside it. Bruce and Jane continue arguing.

Day seven found the pair unwilling to explore it more, until Tony had the brilliant idea, halfway through the day, to run a comparison between the undefinable element that had been driving Bruce and Jane mad, and almost-but-not-quite-Loki magic readings that Tony had been monitoring on Harry's belongings. They all felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

Bruce's fingers are literally, _literally_ millimetres away from the keyboard, only seconds from beginning the analysis, when a sharp klaxon bursts from a computer in the corner of the room. The one monitoring the satellite feeds. Tony all but flies over to the console.

"Holy shit." He breathes, checking the screens. He looks up at Bruce and Jane's expectant faces.

"We've got a hit."

* * *

So that's chapter Eight for you.  
Those who guess correctly who it's gonna be (I've deliberately left them out of the character field in the story description, for a proper surprise :P So if you don't like it please don't rage at me) get a cookie. And maybe, if you're really lucky, a preview of the first 200 words of the next chapter. Because I can, and you can't say I'm not a benevolent writer (when I'm not forgetting to put in Spoiler warnings that is- so sorry, again, to those who read the last chapter before I put them up).

Gotta get going! See you next week!


	9. Chapter 9: Oh Hi There

So, a little late by Australian time, but I'm travelling through Tokyo right now, so sue me. I've been editing this baby in my off time (and OH MY GOD THIS CHAPTER JUST FELT LIKE IT WOULD NEVER END)

Chapter Nine! New character! A longer Chapter! Get excited guys!

Or disappointed. Or Whatever.

Thanks to everyone who left a comment or tried to guess who the newcomer would be. Sorry if the rewarding morsel of ch9 felt a bit vague… kind of promised to send 200 words to you _before_ I started editing ch9 and realised the first 200 words (hell, the first 500 words really) don't actually give anything away, or are really much of a reward :S

Also a **WARNING: **pretty much from now on in, SWEAR WORDS GALORE. I personally have the mouth of a truck-driver, and it can certainly be seen to transfer to my writing. I don't shy away from using profanities wherever necessary... and well, for much of this chapter, I feel it's pretty necessary. If it were me in this chapter, I'd be swearing too. But sorry to those who find it offensive (though you were warned in the story blurb thing)

Anyway, I will shut up now. Enjoy peeps!

Cinna

* * *

**Chapter Nine:** Oh Hi There

* * *

Aubrey Davis was a content man.

He lived well, with everything he needed- though not everything he wanted- in a safe suburb, with a safe and satisfying job. He had many friends- though only a few were close- and had access to all the comics he could ever dream of at work. Upon intense reflection of himself, he thought that he had only a few faults; a lack of ambition to do anything with himself (besides create his own comics to stock the shelves at work with), and a perfectionist streak that more often than not prevented him from doing so. He knew of course that these were not his only faults- he was lazy, sometimes selfish and on more than one occasion painfully shy.

But all in all, he was happy. He loved his job, he loved the people; he loved his little flat and his cat Nixie. He rarely broke his norm (crawl out of bed to the shower, trudge to work, grab coffee on the way, stock the shelves, serve the customers, re-stock the shelves then go home to feed the cat and watch TV) and was okay with that. He _liked_ being normal, and he _liked_ having a steady routine. It didn't bother him that he lived what some would call 'a boring life.'

But sometimes, in the corners of his mind, on a particularly dissatisfying day, Aubrey Davis thinks that his life is a little _too _ordinary. A little _too_ lacklustre. Because God, but his only ambition is to write a comic book, and he hasn't even managed to come up with a decent storyline (it's the only thing in his life that he is unhappy with).

But enough of that.

Aubrey Davis is also an observant man. He's quiet, more likely to sit there listening to a conversation than adding to it. His eyes caught more on the little things than the big, and he loved watching the quirks and actions people made when they think no one is watching. Casey, his co-worker, ate paper. A regular at his favourite coffee shop would dig her fingernails into the varnished wood of her table- he didn't think she even realised it. A customer at the comic-book store would suck absentmindedly at the thumbnail on her left hand and run her tongue over its lacquered surface (always a different colour) when thinking. It had gotten to the point, years ago, that he no longer thought differently of others for not noticing the things that he did. People, as a whole, saw less than he did- by lack of ability or choice, he didn't know.

It was why he wasn't particularly surprised to be the only one to notice the sudden appearance of a woman in the alleyway directly across the road from work. He watches the girl in astonishment- because he is very, _very _sure that she had just appeared out of nowhere. She's dirty and dishevelled, wearing some strange sort of bag like clothing that gives little of her form away. She clutches something in her right hand, but he can't see from here what it is.

The woman takes a stumbling step forward; trips and falls flat on her face.

Aubrey winces. He doesn't bother asking Casey if he'd seen her.

He rushes out, concerned, when he sees that the girl does not move. Casey cries out in confusion behind him. The street is almost completely empty- a miracle for midday on a Saturday- and he crosses the road easily.

"Miss?" he calls out, "Miss, are you okay?" She doesn't respond. Her hair is a mess of brown curls, frizzy and dirty and matted in places. An arm lies outstretched and a small hand peeks out from under her long, baggy sleeves, clutching tightly at a long, thin stick. It's almost as long as his forearm. Her clothes are black. They look tattered.

"The hell, Aubrey?" Casey calls out, already crossing the road.

"She just appeared. Fell forward," he says in reply when the younger man reaches him.

That's when he sees the blood.

It's slowly pooling around the girl, black and viscous in the dim light of the alley. He moves to gently turn her over- her shoulder feels wet, and when he takes his hand away the skin is stained red.

"Holy shit." Casey breathes behind him. Aubrey can't help but agree. Her face is a multitude of cuts and bruises, blood dripping down the left side from a slash on her forehead. The skin at the base of her neck looks angry red and scaly… almost blistered (he doesn't want to think of them as burns. No sir not at all). Most disturbing of all is her right shoulder. It's a mess; all broken skin and parted flesh. Blood flows steadily from the stab wound, hidden by her black clothes.

For a moment, he assesses her. The Broken Woman. She looks small enough for him to carry (he'd never been the strongest of people). The bones in her wrists seem small and fragile and for a second he imagines they're hollow, like a birds. He moves to cradle her in his arms, but as if sensing his intentions, the woman's eyes snap open.

"Harry?" she croaks at Aubrey. Panic spreads across her face when she sees no recognizable face, "Where's Harry?" she asks him urgently, hand shooting out to grasp at his shirt. He tries not to think of the blood she's leaving behind on his nice blue shirt.

"There's no Harry here." He murmurs soothingly, gently holding the hand clutching his shirt. Her eyes turn from confused to sharp as diamonds in seconds.

"Where am I?" she demands, breath hitching with pain.

"Ottawa, Miss." Her eyes flicker around the alley, as if trying to find something to confirm his claim.

"Ottawa," she says faintly, almost as if to herself, "I know Ottawa." Aubrey nods.

"Miss, we need to get you to a hospital."

"You look like shit." Casey interjects (un)helpfully.

"No!" she snarls. Aubrey is taken aback by the ferocity in her voice, "No hospitals- I can't go to the hospital." She moves as if to sit up and Aubrey pushes her back down in alarm when she bites back a cry.

"Miss, you're… well you're pretty fucked up. You need a hospital- or at least a doctor."

"_No_" her hand returns to his shirt, "I can take care of it myself."

They eye her dubiously.

"Just _trust me_." Aubrey sighs. He can always call a doctor over when she's not looking.

"I can take you into the shop. We've got a backroom." Casey makes a sound as if to protest, but a sharp look has him thinking better of it.

The woman stares at him, hard. There's something shrewd in her expression that unnerves him. Beneath the blood and the bruises he suspects she must be in her late twenties, but her eyes look aeons older and they're tearing through him with the weight of her stare. It terrifies and exhilarates him all at the same time.

"Alright," she says finally, the intensity in her gaze suddenly leaving, "Help me up then."

Aubrey ignores her and picks her up. She cries out in a mix of pain and indignation.

_I was right_, he thinks grimly, sending covert glances out of the mouth of the alleyway, _She's light. Too light, I bet she could fly away on the slightest breeze._

"Hollow bones." He murmurs, not realised he's said it out loud.

"What?" comes her sharp reply.

"… Nothing."

The road is no longer empty, but the people don't seem to notice him carrying the bloodied girl across the street. And if they do, they act as though they hadn't. He thanks the Gods above that no one's thought to visit their store in the whole three minutes they've been outside. He doesn't want to have to explain to surprised and traumatised customers why he's carrying a girl who looks as though she's come from a warzone into their staffroom.

"What your name?" he asks a he crosses the road. A taxi driver or two eye him strangely. Her eyes fly back to him.

"Hermione." She says warily.

"That's a weird name."

She huffs a pained laugh, "It is a bit, yeah. My parents always like Grecian mythology."

"Oh." He doesn't know what she's talking about.

Casey opens the door for them and leads them out the back. An old sofa they'd picked up from a roadside pickup sits next their rickety table the boss had bought from Ikea. An ancient urn sits precariously on top, next to their endless tins of shitty coffee. He sets her down carefully on the sofa, ignoring the fact that she's leaving blood everywhere (indeed, they'd already left a trail of red on the carpet from the door to the staffroom).

"Mmph," Hermione gasps, pushing herself up and moving to sit on the edge. Aubrey tries to stop her, concerned, but she shoots him a deadly look and he stands back meekly, "ffuck!" she cries, hand flying to the ugly mess of her shoulder, "God- fuck! My bag, get my bag!"

"Uhh bag?"

"I dropped it at the door… small… beaded bag- _shit_!" she's trying to undo a clasp at her neck with her good arm. Her hand is shaking and her face is sickly pale. Aubrey sends Casey to find her bag and sets about undoing the rest of her coat/cloak thing. Hermione sends him a grateful smile, but her eyes are shiny, almost glazed.

Casey returns by the time he's got her weird outer clothes off, clutching a beaded bag, its delicate embroidery badly damaged and worn. She wears a pair of equally tattered jeans, the knees torn, showing scraped and dirty skin underneath. Her shirt is an old blue tee, the neck over-stretched and gaping.

Casey hands her the bag. His hands seem to be shaking just as much as hers are.

"Thanks." Casey jerks to her a nod and retreats to the furthermost corner of the room (Aubrey suspects he doesn't like blood). She opens her bag, clumsy fingers slipping at the clasp, but she manages. She picks up the stick that she'd placed carefully on the pillow beside her.

"_Accio_ Dittany," she gasps, pointing the polished stick at the opening of her bag. A small glass vial flies into her waiting hand. Casey swears. Aubrey blanches. Hermione's hands shake some more, "G- get this off me. I- I can't…" she trails off, sounding strained and motions to her shirt and the stab wound (which is _still _bleeding, though noticeably slower, which is somewhat comforting).

Aubrey's mind draws a blank.

"Uhh… what?" Casey says stupidly.

"My shirt-" Hermoine sobs, throwing her bag across the sofa, a bitter tinge to her voice now, "I need… I need it off-" she falls back, all loose-limbed and pasty skin, "I can't h-heal myself with it on. Not without complications."

Aubrey and Casey stare at her dumbly.

"_Fucking now!_" she sobs angrily, "_Merlin_, go find some scissors or something! I'm not getting any better over here!"

Her pained snarls spurn him into action. He moves with robotic limbs to the sink. There's a serrated knife in the drawer, cleaned only to a bachelor's standard, but it will do the trick better than their scissors would.

He kneels in front of her; his hands tremble when he brings the knife to her shirt. He starts at the bottom hem, unwilling to begin his dubious honour of undressing Hermione at the skin of her throat, which looks damaged enough as it is without having to suffer under his unsteady hands. The old material parts easily enough, snagging only occasionally as he works his way up. He cuts straight up, trying his best not to stare at her covered breasts, then across the shoulder, making sure the knife never touches her skin.

Hermione lies back against the lounge, hazy eyes fluttering closed.

"Now," she says quietly, searching blindly for his hand when he finishes and the destroyed sleeve falls away. She presses the vial into his hand, "You need to apply two drops to the wound."

At this point, Aubrey finds no opposition to her orders. The situation is weird enough already, what with the apparent summoning of objects and her unexplained appearance in the first place. The application of some weird brown liquid that kind of looks like iodine is kind normal in the scheme of things. And hey, maybe it _is_ iodine, or something similar.

He drips the liquid onto her shoulder. His hands no longer tremble. Hermione whimpers and cries out, pale hands grab at his shirt. Her stick clatters to the floor. Tears stream down her face, agony running rampant across her features.

And _fucking hell_, but the skin around the wound is _growing_. Holy mother of Mary, it's literally healing over the wound and its advanced pace belies all known medical discoveries; of this Aubrey is certain.

"Holy fucking shit," He breathes, staring fascinated at the new skin growing over the stab wound. It's an angry purple under the blood. Hermione rests her head against his chest, her breathing heavy and laboured. Her hair smells like fire and blood.

"You need to do the other side now," she says lowly, dread saturating her voice. And she's right. Whatever had wounded her had gone straight through. The remains of her shirt sticks to her skin with blood, but he can still see the exit wound. Carefully, he peels the fabric away and applies more of the brown stuff. Hermione cries out an angry, "_Shit!_" into his shirt.

"Casey, I think we'll need some cloths and some water. And can you find her a shirt? I think Doug keeps a few of his under the counter." Aubrey doesn't know why his boss stashes shirts in the store, but right now it's a blessing. Casey nods mutely and exits the staffroom. Hermione leans bonelessly against him, her skin now fully healed over. Carefully he sets her back against the sofa and takes the proffered items from Casey. He's put the water in an old Tupperware container. The cloths are just unused dish cloths.

"Make sure the door's locked would you? It's probably not good for customers to find bloodstains on the floor." Casey disappears again. Aubrey sets about cleaning Hermione up, feeling less subconscious now that their audience is gone.

"What was that stuff?" he asks later, sponging away the encrusted blood on her face. She barely looks awake, but he feels like it's probably a good idea to keep her lucid.

"Essence of Dittany. It heals the skin." Comes her slurred reply. Aubrey stores the information away for later when he has access to a computer.

"Just the skin?"

"Mm. It's all still a stab wound under there... I'll find someone to heal it later."

"Oh." He falls silent again, moving down to her neck. He tries to avoid the worst of her burns; red and blistered and scabbing over in places.

"Where did you come from?" Hermione sighs, sad brown eyes falling on him.

"Far away."

"You sound British."

She huffs a laugh, "I am… of a sort." Her face takes on a bitter cast. He moves to her arm.

"How did you get here? You just popped up out of nowhere in that alleyway." Hermione frowns, thoughtful.

"I'm not entirely sure… but I have my suspicions."

"I see." He says, not really seeing at all, but he doesn't think she's going to tell him much more than that. Another thought occurs to him, "Are you a mutant?"

"Mutant?" her face turns curious.

"A human with special abilities. Some mutants can fly, read minds and even control the elements." And Aubrey would like to think that no one could blame him for the envious lilt to his voice. Some mutant abilities are just plain awesome.

"What makes you think I'm a mutant?" she asks carefully as he gets up to rinse the cloth and change the water- there was a lot of blood and dirt to clean off.

"Well, you teleported into that alley, used that stick thing to summon something into your hand and then proceeded to heal yourself. What else could you be?" She eyes him. There's a calculating glint to her eye. Suddenly her face brightens and she sends him a smile.

"You're right, what else could I be? You've got me- I'm a mutant. Are you going to turn me in?"

He looks at her as if she were an idiot, "Uh- no. Have you seen this place? Superheroes and mutants are kind of our MO. Casey out there practically hero worships Professor X."

"Who's Professor X?"

"Only the most famous mutant there is- well, besides Magneto, but he's a bit of a dick."

"I see."

"He owns a school specifically for mutants; has his own kind of mutant task force. He's kind of a big thing- though a lot of people don't like him or what he represents," he sends her a weird look, "How do you not know who Professor Xavier is?"

She smiles enigmatically, "I've been kept out of the know."

"Right." He finishes on her arm- she has a few more cuts, but they don't look so bad.

"I don't have anything to help with the rest of you, sorry. I really think you should go see a doctor," it's times like these though that he wished Doug hadn't skimped out on their first-aid kit. He knows for a fact (thanks to his general incompetency's with a Stanley knife) that they don't have anything more than some tweezers and a few bandaids in that stupid box, "I guess you'll need a sling for that arm, but you should be okay to put the shirt on for now." He points to the button-up draped over the head of the sofa, "Do you need any help putting it on?"

She shakes her head.

"I'll be just outside then. Give me a shout when you're ready and we'll see what we can do about a sling."

"What's your name?" Hermione asks before he closes the door on her.

He smiles, "I'm Aubrey."

"Aubrey. That's a weird name." she jokes, in retaliation to his earlier remark. He smirks.

"It is a bit, yeah."

She laughs softly, brown eyes crinkling at the corners, before sobering, "Thank-you Aubrey," she says; her face looks sad again, "Your help has been much appreciated."

He shrugs, "No worries."

He closes the door behind him. And he doesn't think about the bitterness and rage that hides behind her sad looking eyes. He doesn't, honestly.

Casey is sitting on the counter, chewing on a piece of gum.

"How the fuck are we gonna to explain the bloodstains to Doug?" the younger man asks. Aubrey eyes the browning marks on the floor shrewdly. They're not that obvious, but he has a feeling their boss would notice (especially the ones on the couch).

He shrugs, fishing behind the counter for another shirt. He thinks he could make a halfway decent sling out of one. He can just imagine Doug's reaction now, which honestly makes it all the more worth it.

"Dunno. We could just tell him the truth I guess. The girl's a mutant, so he'll probably get excited enough about that that he'll forgive us for leaving her blood everywhere."

Casey laughs and pops his gum. His face turns pensieve, "Is she gonna be okay? She didn't look too good in there before."

Aubrey nods, staring at the closed door, "Yeah. The worst of her injuries was her shoulder, I think; and you saw what she did to that."

"Mm… what are we gonna do with her?" Aubrey is stumped by that question. Because what _are_ they going to do with her? The girl that refuses a hospital or a doctor, but clearly should not be left on her own. He gets the feeling she'd be unable to stay with friends of her own too.

"We could try and contact Professor Xavier; he might be able to take her in. She's a mutant, after all." He tears Doug's shirt apart with the knife as he talks. Casey watches him with a small smile on his face.

"He might not." He says, fishing out his phone to look up the Xavier Institute, "There's probably plenty of mutants out there that are trying to get in." Aubrey shrugs in defiance.

"Even so, it's worth a shot. I don't think she's got anywhere to go."

"I do- for the moment at least," a soft voice interrupts them. Hermione stands in the doorway, clutching her damaged arm to her chest. She looks healthier already, cheeks pink and eyes sharp. Doug's shirt is probably ten sizes too big for her and her jeans are still a mess, but she doesn't seem to care overly much. Aubrey moves over to set her arm in the makeshift sling.

"Where will you go?" he asks, tying the ragged edges of the shirt up at the back of her neck.

She shrugs her good shoulder, "I have some things to check out," she says evasively, "But first I need to find Harry."

"Then the good news is, we've already done that part for you." Drawls a voice from the front door. They all look up in surprise.

"_No fucking way_." Casey murmurs in awe. Aubrey feels very much like saying the same thing. He'd recognise that face anywhere. Most people would- be it through admiration or dislike.

"I'll have you know though, we expect some recompense for it- we came across him purely by accident, but he wasn't in the best of shape when we found him." Tony Stark strolls into the store as if he owns the place (though Aubrey isn't quite sure how he's managed that, given he'd asked Casey to lock the door) and picks up a comic at random. _Nightwing_ emblazons its cover. He wears a suit jacket casually tossed over his jeans and a worn black _Led Zeppelin_ tee. A metal briefcase rests at his feet; Aubrey has pretty strong hunch as to what's inside it.

"What kind of shape was he in?" Hermione asks, and her voice sounds sickly sweet and calm and oh so dangerous. There's a glint in her eyes that has Aubrey wanting to edge away from her and he can see that she's grasping her stick to hard her knuckles have gone white.

Mr Stark eyes Casey, who's staring at him as if he were the Son of God, born again, "I'd rather not say anything in front of the civilians." Which is an unfair assessment because Aubrey knows _for a fact_ that he is still only an associate of SHIELD; despite his involvement with the Avengers.

"Military?" and if possible Hermione's voice sounds even more dangerous now.

Mr Stark's face looks as though he'd just stepped in dog shit.

"Fuck _no_." He turns to Casey, who's still staring dumbfounded, "She doesn't know who I am. How can she not know who I am?"

Casey just shrugs, looking almost terrified to be put on the spot by one of his biggest idols.

"And who _are_ you?" Hermione snaps, sounding unhappy at being talked about as though she weren't there (although it could also be a reaction to Tony Stark's natural obnoxiousness).

Stark smirks and sends her a little bow, "Only Tony Stark; genius, billionaire, philanthropist-" and Aubrey could swear there should be another title in that spiel, "-owner of Stark Industries, the creator and operator of Ironman and member of the Avengers Initiative. I'm kind of a big thing." He points to Casey as if to demonstrate his point.

Hermione doesn't look impressed. In fact, Aubrey would go as far as to say she looks decidedly unimpressed. Her next line merely proves the point further.

"What's the Avengers Initiative?" Stark stares at her as if she's grown another head.

"Fuck, maybe you _are_ from an alternate universe," he remarks jokingly, but Aubrey doesn't miss the way Hermione suddenly stiffens and the smug gleam in Mr Stark's eyes that follows, "We're the saviours of the Earth, Queenie. The vanguard against all things nasty," he carries on, acting as if his little information fishing hadn't occurred.

She seems to chew on this for a minute, eyeing Stark with undisguised suspicion.

"You said you have Harry," she finally grinds out, "What's your proof?"

Stark nods approvingly and pulls out his phone, handing it to her carefully, "He was wearing this." He says seriously. There's an image on the screen of some kind of triangular pendant, bisected by a vertical line, a circle touches all three sides of the triangle.

Hermione's hand trembles when she passes it back.

"Where did you find him?" Stark looks at Aubrey and Casey warily.

'Why don't we discuss this in the car?" Hermione nods slowly, pocketing her stick finally.

"Alright. But wherever you're taking me better have a shower," she glances at her shoulder, "And a medical facility."

Tony sends her a rakish smile and opens the door for her, "For you, Queenie, anything." She only raises an eyebrow at his uninvited flirting, completely unaffected.

Hermione pauses at the doorway and turns around to face Aubrey and Casey.

"Thank-you." She says solemnly, eyes lingering on Aubrey. She gives them a bow, slow and graceful. Then she's swirling around, following Stark (texting on his phone) out of the store and onto the busy street.

They watch the pair slide into a waiting car, the SHIELD logo emblazoned on its side. It disappears into the traffic moments later.

"Well that was fuckin' weird." Casey remarks into the heavy silence left behind.

"Yeah."

"The fuck did she even come from?"

"I don't know." Aubrey lies. His hands stray for a pen and paper.

He suddenly has an excellent idea for a comic.

* * *

**A/N: **The mystery character revealed! What do you think?

At first I was hesitant to add another HP character into the mix because I generally prefer fics that just have one HP character… usually Harry. But I am a largely organic writer, and whilst I'd originally envisioned Great Expectations with just Harry, Hermione just kind of barged her way in here. And in the end I'm glad she did- Hermione is often such an underutilised character in HP/Avengers fics (often turned into a Mary-Sue, or character-bashed… or just ignored) and she's been really fun to write.

I'm going to endeavour to make her as un-Mary-Sue as possible, I swear. But if you feel she's getting a bit over the top or corny, please feel more than free to tell me so; although please, tell me _why_ she's getting like so.

For those who are wondering, Aubrey and Casey are one use wonders. They won't be likely to turn up later in the story (but maybe, at some point, I might make a drabble sidepiece for GE, so you might see some Aubrey action there. Otherwise don't hold your breath); sorry, to anyone who liked them or had any hopes for them.

See ya'll next week!


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